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Category: Syria

Falafel Fahar and my ever growing belly

I had staggered home from the opening night of an art exhibition in Aleppo with Khalid Khalifa (the famous Syrian author), we had eaten in a beautiful courtyard restaurant, “One day I will have a place like this to call my home”, “And I will invite you Sean my friend… When I have written a best seller that is.” Kahlid is never without a smile, he is a hefty kind of man with big rotund tummy, seemingly always with a pen in one hand and a glass of Arak in the other, “Sean is my drinking buddy in Damascus” he tells a gaggle of Syrians delighted, and impressed, to meet him.

Khalid’s controversial novel ‘In Praise of Hatred‘ about his home town Aleppo is banned here, but, as with many things in Syria, it is available in all good book stores under the counter. In the book Khalid charts how his beautiful home city was ‘lost’ to the Islamists. “You should make a film about the young, simply ask them what they want in life” he says. But it is not so easy, such talk can come with a 3 year prison sentence attached, as locals here can testify.

A good night out in Aleppo is never complete without a bite of the world’s best Falafel so I wave goodnight to Khalid and quickly nip away to indulge myself in the one thing I’ve been dreaming of all night.

Falafel Fahar café is brightly lit as usual, as usual it is full of customers standing around 2 bowls, one containing fresh chillies and the other brimming with fresh mint, I join the men munching on the hot freshly cooked Falafel dressed in the most beautiful Tahina sauce. The skill between each bite is to swap between the fresh mint in one hand and the hot fresh chilli in the other, this is not for the faint-heated but hey, this is without doubt the best food I’ve eaten in Syria since I came here. Forget those beautiful 5 star restaurants with smartly dressed customers politely seated around the fountain in the perfectly adorned courtyard of some grand old mansion – this is physical eating, a real participatory process that leaves me feeling fulfilled in a way that only sex can do. I eat and talk and eat some more, until, completely satisfied, I head off home to my bed, blissfully in love with Falafel Fahar and my very own ever-growing belly.

This is my paradise

As I walk the busy Damascus streets I watch workmen move steel girders onto awaiting lorries, all around me impatient drivers blast their car horns, this is the chorus to my daily Arabic life.

In front of me a man hammers a giant mortar and pestle making real hand-made ice-cream; no electric churners here, it’s all so physical. Brightly coloured bags filled with a variety of fresh juices for Ramadan adorn stalls all along the street – an irresistible selection of mango pomegranate tamarind liquorice, and much more.

A cockerel croaks it’s last breath before it’s head is removed swiftly ready for today’s kebab, there is no frozen meat here. A hen looks nervously at me as if it knows it’s inevitable fate, it stands there, un-caged and docile steadfastly refusing to fly away.

The wonderful smell of za’atar turns my mind back to food; its the Damascus smell – a mix of sesame and thyme spices, eaten with fresh olive oil on bread. I find it hard to walk past the 24-hour hummus cafe in the Christian-end of the street; packed with people eating the wonderful creamy chickpea tahini dish with bright coloured pickles and fresh Arabic flat bread.

I indulge in a bowl hoping it may somehow protect me from the poisonous Arak I had the night before. The white cloudy drink had stolen another night from my life, this time I found myself drinking with one of Syria’s most famous and revered writers, this 60 cigarettes a day man talked of his achievement at always writing political dramas for TV and cinema without ever being threatened or questioned by the authorities; for whatever reason he is just left alone. “This is my paradise” he tells me proudly “Here I do what I want and say what I want”.

I try to ask him about ‘The red line’, referring to the invisible line that most “sensible” Syrians know not to cross in order to maintain their ‘freedom’, “There is no red line” the writer tells me laughing, “The red line only exists in the mind, it is there to guide us!” Others have told me that it exists to allow the authorities to pick up who they want when they want, as a means of exerting a little bit of pressure now and again.

I lose myself in the history of these streets, it is like stepping back in time with it’s wonderfully terrible anarchic noise and disordered chaos, this is the life I love and miss so much when I am back home in the West. Time passes quickly when I walk these streets, each journey bringing me something new and often never repeated, the randomness, the shocks, and the surprises I crave in life are here without fail everyday on this dirty noisy Damascan street.

The noise of the street can be crippling and then, suddenly, as the Ramadan breakfast breaks, it becomes quiet with not a soul in sight, and an eerie empty silence envelopes the once bustling street.

Soon, hidden, out of sight, the people will break their fast and eat for the first time in the day, as I slowly wander the empty street alone, arrested by its silent dirty peaceful glory.

Needle and the damage nearly done

Dentist Rima was waiting for me again; veiled as ever “Ramadan is nearly over, it will be Eid next week and we need to get your bridge ordered before then”.

Before I knew it I was back in the chair with a needle entering the roof of my mouth then another to the back followed by 2 more monsters to the gum. “I must prepare the tooth for the bridge fitting”, I murmur some pathetic remark about needles in the roof of the mouth being painful but she ignores me and starts drilling away at the numbed gum around my tooth in preparation to fit the bridge.

My mouth fills with my blood gushing out of my disintegrating gum and I nearly throw-up on dentist Rima, she pulls back just in time and I manage to spit the blood into the nearby sink.

“What is it?” she asks, bemused at my behaviour. “I can’t stand the taste of blood” I tell her pathetically, “Or the smell of my tooth being ground-away”, “I haven’t even removed the excess gum yet” she says impatiently, I really didn’t need to know that I think to myself before deciding to shut up and let her get on with it.

A family arrive. A veiled woman and her 3 lovely children sit around me watching, obviously fascinated by all the blood and the foreigner in the dentist chair looking awkward and scared. This isn’t a sight for kids I think, I remember back to the time I fainted with fear at the dentists as a child, I saw the needle and hit the deck. Maybe these are hardened Arabic kids, they watch as dentist Rima drills away tearing back the gum from around my tooth, I stop her again to spit out more large mouthfuls of deep red blood to the absolute delight of my attentive audience.

Another family arrive with yet more kids and the audience builds, Rima pushes my head back and continues to drill around the tooth, despite the anaesthetic I feel sharp jolts of pain in my gum but still she drills on and on and on, I continue to spit out mouthfuls of blood and wonder if this will ever end. I try taking my mind off it by thinking about the week just gone, it has been a hard slow week trying to make my film but at least my dental bill is only £100 as opposed to the £850 I was quoted in London.

Finally, I swill my mouth out for the last time, “I must see you on Wednesday” dentist Rima demands, “Eid will begin on Thursday so we should fit the bridge on Wednesday”. Coughing and spluttering I make my way down the hot dusty street to find a cab, I climb in nursing my wounds like an injured soldier, the young driver looks at me and smiles. As he drives I notice a deep scar to his neck and arm and point to them, he shows me other deep one into his belly, speaking no English he indicates that it happened in prison and he smiles at me again, suddenly my mouth feels less swollen. We drive in silence and I stare straight ahead into the glare of the busy Syrian highway.

Safe in my dentists chair

My trip to Beirut gave me a chance to think about Syria again and remind myself just exactly what it is that I find so fascinating about the place, a chance to stand back and peer in from its more glamorous neighbour Lebanon, where the Paris-like prices nearly killed me, but god I loved the sea!

I missed my appointment on Sunday with dentist Rima and couldn’t call to tell her from Beirut because I’d left her number at the hotel By the time I called on Tuesday she was in a panic, ‘”Where are you? What has happened! are you OK?” In one of my loneliest moments in this arid desert land it seemed that the brave ‘McAllister of Arabia’ had found himself an Arabic mother in his veiled dentist Rima.

I was back in her chair the following morning. “No needles today Sean, it all seems to be healing up well. Did you enjoy Lebanon?” She asked. “Yes I did” I replied, and, with dentist Rima poking around in my mouth I continued “It was great to begin to understand how people see the conflict in the region, I met many who loved Hezbollah and others that didn’t, some who felt that Syria was having a proxy war with Israel on Lebanon’s land by funding Hezbollah, and others who believed that if Israel really wanted peace they could have it tomorrow, but for some reason they don’t want it.”

Loyal and fierce in her patriotism dentist Rima sighs as if she’s heard this a thousand times, “It is all connected to Israel Sean, until the issue surrounding Israel is resolved there will never be peace in the Middle East.”

In the countryside of Syria I have spoken to many of the older generation who refuse point blank to accept the land of Israel. “The Jews can live there but the land has to be called Palestine” said one, another says “No Jews, only Arabs in our Palestine”. I suggest that realistically speaking Israel with the backing of America is going nowhere so isn’t it better to do a deal for peace, maybe get the Golan Heights back and divide Israel in 2 parts?

No compromise I am constantly told by the older generation; the ones that lived through the creation of Israel and the following displacement of million of Palestinians, they seem as uncompromising as do the current Israeli government, no wonder any peace deal seems so far away. I am told that the crusaders occupied this land for 200 years and were eventually kicked out, that Israel is still young only 60 years old, that there is plenty of time for the Jews to be kicked out, that as the American economy collapses in the recession it won’t be able to continue propping it up.

Dentist Rima like many here puts much of this in the hands of god, “One day we will get the land back” she says, “Oh and the good news is root canal is healed”. If it wasn’t for my veiled Arabic mother what would I do?

The heavy price of freedom… and whisky

So just what is it that makes us feel “free” I think to myself as we race through the desert – I am leaving Damascus to renew my visa in Beirut, “It is the Paris of the Middle East, famous for all kinds of things” Roula says with a naughty smile.

As soon as we cross the border Roula removes her long-sleeved top to reveal her shoulders, a small freedom not allowed in Syria (secular but still a predominantly Muslim country), and now it is also Ramadan which makes some aspects of life even more restrictive, “It’s great to be free” Roula jokes as we cross the border.

Before long I am in Lebanon bathing in its beautiful blue sea and ogling the scantily clad women as they play on the beach. Is it the unrestricted conversations or the lack of veils that make me feel more free here? I love the cafe and restaurant filled streets – it feels so modern and alive after a month in Damascus.

I miss the sea a lot when I am in hot dusty Damascus, and I wonder if a part of me also misses the familiarity of the big American chains such as Starbucks, Pizza Hut, KFC, names that I am so used to seeing as part of the landscape of the West. In a way I hate them as much as I miss them, but love them or loathe them Beirut has them all.

In Beirut people are not always on-guard about what to say to each other about politics or the war, you can be and say as you like. But ‘freedom’ often comes with a price as Roula points out, “Watch your bag on the beach” she reminds me – In Syria I’ve got used to leaving my bag wide open, my phone and wallet there for all to see.

Suddenly I feel the need to be security conscious and it feels like a pressure I don’t want, but a pressure which we are forced into and which we get used to in the West – I cannot explain how liberating it is not to have to worry about such things when I am in Syria; quite possibly one of the safest places I have visited.

But of course is this ‘freedom’ is simply a result of dictatorship, or if there is more to it than that… and which is more important, the freedom not to be robbed or the freedom to say what you think?

As night falls we hit the glitzy Beirut streets to enjoy Western ‘freedoms’ such as cocktails in the endless noisy bars that are open until the early hours – though it is only when we get the bill that I realise all this freedom comes with such a heavy price, 12 dollars a drink, wow, I don’t even pay that for one nights’ hotel accommodation in Damascus!

Next morning I wake with a whiskey hangover in the humid heat dripping with sweat having spent more money than I care to think about.

“Quick” I say to Roula “Let’s get the hell out of this westernised Arabic democracy – freedom is too expensive! Let’s get back to that safe cheap dictatorship where we can drink and eat for a month in Damascus for what we spent last night”.

As we cross the border back into Syria Roula once again pulls on her long-sleeve shirt once more to conceal her shoulders, but at least we know we won’t be robbed or mugged while we are here, and that I can enjoy a meal at a top restaurant with a bottle of the best Lebanese wine for the price of one whisky in Beirut!